


The Work in Progress, a Poem

by Anonymous_nova (orphan_account)



Category: No Fandoms, None - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: I too am a work in progress, No Plot/Plotless, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Other, POV First Person, POV Original Character, Work In Progress, amateur writer/work, no plan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23892142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Anonymous_nova
Summary: My take on a 12-13 y/o person going through life with the troubles of middle school, a bad memory, past trauma, a fuzzy brain, and various other things.or, alternatively; Feelin fuzzy but being a poet------This isn't my first work BUT it is the first work I'm taking seriously. It's also my first time dealing with such topics. I'm taking heavy inspiration from my own experiences in order to help the narrative, but I'm absolutely open to any advice or constructive criticism. Please keep in mind that this story doesn't really have a drive or ending, and I plan on keeping the ending open. Thank you for reading!





	The Work in Progress, a Poem

**Author's Note:**

> Somethings you should know, dear reader...  
> -Constructive criticism is welcome.  
> -I have no idea what the brain fuzz is it just happens  
> -this is being written as it's being made  
> -has no goal or plot  
> -pretty much a huge mess but me too  
> -messes can be beautiful and I'd like to think at least the poems in this are.  
> -organized (to a point) mess  
> -I'm exploring writing and this concept blindly advice is very much adequate  
> -I can only hope that this'll update regularly or at all

Page One  
The Middle

Getting out of bed seemed less of a challenge and more of routine. Just a motion you go through every day. When I looked in the mirror I saw less of myself, less of a person. I don’t know how to describe it really. It’s like looking at someone else, but even that’s different for me. It’s dumb, I have to get to school anyway. 

When I open the fridge, it feels cold against my skin and comforting. It feels close and less foggy than the people in the mirror or beyond the glass. I wonder when the ground felt less like concrete and more like grass. Or when people stopped being full and real. It’s dumb, it doesn't matter anyway. I opened the car door but I swear I didn’t even feel the handle there. 

School blends and I barely register my friends greeting me. Or the sound of people talking; the bell ringing or their footsteps as we all head to class. My first class is less foggy than usual, the room feels cold against my skin and that’s grounding. I'm almost sure I like this class more because it feels less distant. The people still have lost their depth, though. I wonder when the impression or weight of other’s lives and complexity stopped. 

Second, Third, Fourth...Sixth. Every class blends and I only have two classes before the day ends. Math doesn't take away the fuzziness of my reality but forces it into the background. Fear overshadows how vibrations and impressions feel more real than people. I hate how tall the teacher seems, how real the fear and images behind my eyes feel. I despise the troublemakers treating class like some fun occasion they can play with; as if it doesn’t directly affect the futures of the ghosts that roam with mine. Those who drift through the motion of life. 

Eighth always gives me more time to think. To dwell, to buzz. The movie that plays after seventh slows with the pump of my heart, but the tension in my shoulders refuses to drop. I try to focus on the words and questions I have to answer. But the whole thing only causes further panic and just proves to cause more irritation than education. I’m grateful for my headphones and the robotic voice that reads everything out to me. She feels more real than the concrete-to-grass but less real than me. If that’s even saying much, at this point. 

When I get home, I welcome the warmth of my room but dismiss the call and coldness of my bed. It’s not a big deal, I have to do homework anyway. I’d be lying if I said that after opening my Chromebook to do my work, I didn’t try to avoid it at all costs. In an attempt to calm my mind, and drive away the increasing static to a more bearable level of buzz, I write a poem. In a google doc on my school computer. Not the smartest move, but who's going to understand it anyway? 

The Knife  
Life often has a melody that most call ambition  
That most fall for, fight for.  
Who’s to say it's all a lie?  
Who’s to say it’s not?  
I don’t care  
But it’s something to dwell on  
Something better than  
The knife that cuts the cake;  
The cake that is my brain.  
The fuzz that replaces the slice  
Of jam and frosting  
It welcomed over the pain  
Of losing a piece of myself.

**Author's Note:**

> Questions for you to answer :)
> 
> Do you write poetry?  
> If yes, what's your favorite work you've written?  
> If no, what's your favorite poem you've read?  
> If you don't read poetry (or can't pick a favorite) what's your favorite work you've read? (includes books, comics, fanfiction, etc)


End file.
